


Cold Up There

by Jo Lasalle (Jo_Lasalle)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-22
Updated: 2006-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jo_Lasalle/pseuds/Jo%20Lasalle
Summary: This is set between Home Part 2 and Final Cut.(Part of a number of stories re-uploaded for archival purposes. It's been over 15 years, and so any tagging or summaries are going to be extremely bare-bones! I tried to time a bulk upload so nobody got 10 separate notifications, but if I did accidentally spam people, my apologies!)
Relationships: Lee "Apollo" Adama/Laura Roslin





	Cold Up There

**Author's Note:**

> Re-uploaded for archival purposes. It's been over 15 years, and so any tagging or summaries are going to be extremely bare-bones.

It's late when the hall finally clears, abandoned glasses of water and too bitter liquor everywhere, and Laura buttons the neck of her jacket and thinks about Adama's forgiveness. She didn't ask for it, but she has it anyway. Now she wears it, like an invisible crown that's making her back stiff and her face tired from smiling, smiling all night, President Roslin back from exile. She will not be ungrateful.

She moves in a bubble of respect, reverence even, and that's good; there's still so much that needs doing, and this will help. Space clears for her when she walks. She's home now; this is home now, the height to which Adama has lifted her, so she can lift them all. She thinks it won't feel this steep tomorrow, won't weigh this heavy once she's put it all to bed, slept it off, the jail cell and the run and the clarity of purpose. New day. New chapter.

She says her goodbyes, Adama walking her all the way to her shuttle. They make a good pair. They can heal this fleet yet.

Lee waits for her there, smiling, happy and proud as he helps her aboard, and she smiles back for him, because he needs her to as much as they do, deserves it more.

~~~

He came to her in the rain, when she was so cold and sore that every movement hurt, every touch, even his as he pried her stiff, blue fingers away from the drenched book. Taking away the terrible truths in the pages. Kneeling beside her in the poor shelter of the canvas, the hard ground of Kobol with its cost in blood underneath.

Adama's son; her last ally. Maybe she even hurt him when she held on to him with her cold, unfeeling hands, but the blood under his skin was still flowing, and the arm around her was strong, someone else's strength to hold her up, just for a little while, a little warmth. She turned to him without looking, without thinking, and he didn't mind when she rested her forehead against his cheek, when she found some warmth in the crook of his neck.

She hid her face there, against the beating of his heart, for longer than was prudent when there was nothing to shield them from view, for longer than was sane when he was Adama's son, her only ally; and if he felt her shiver, from thaw not from cold, if he felt her stumbling thoughts in the way she clung to him, something not cold at all creeping into her breathing, he never let on.

~~~

Everything is as she left it in the president's office, in her private quarters. Colonial One, a ghost ship after Laura Roslin left. She sees herself in the mirror, pale and worn, and wonders what they've been seeing all night.

Lee is there, between her and the closed curtain, for once not awkward or worried about intruding. Waiting for an epilogue. He's seen her reinstated, has seen her home safely, has seen his mission through to the end as she did hers, and he's right to be proud.

"Thank you, Lee," she says, because he has a right to hear it, because it's a graceful end to everything he's done for her. "For everything."

"I'm glad," he says, summing up all that has happened just as inadequately, but he's not self-conscious. "That it all worked out." Elated. He's elated, looking at her as if she never let him down and never could. "That we have you back."

Elosha is dead and rotting on Kobol, and the fleet is divided, but they have her back. She's theirs, with everything she has. Prophecy, and hope, and cold strength. Sharp mind, wasting body. Every fibre of her being.

"Thank you," she says again. His part of the story has ended well.

He gives her a smile, light and open, and it comes down harder on her than all of the applause.

She doesn't move, doesn't falter, because she's good at this. He takes her hand anyway, steps close and holds it up between them almost thoughtfully, and without the rain and danger and the numbness of exhaustion, the gentle touch burns her. She stares at their fingers, hers stiff and lifeless like she felt on that podium, and how he pays no heed to that, how he softly brushes his thumb over her knuckles, and bends his head to kiss the back of her hand.

Then he looks up, and he's not embarrassed. He's not even afraid. He waits, she's not sure for what, for her to breathe, for her to snatch her hand away like she should, and there's a bright focus to his eyes, something close to the surface, like a calm, slow fever.

She doesn't move, and he traces a strand of her hair, lightly, with that same strange intensity; so unexpected, Lee who is always polite, always respectful, pushing this thing out in the open, making her remember how she almost forgot that he's Adama's son, that she's not fool enough for this. Incredible then; impossible now. She closes her eyes, because she has to send him away. Has to send him home, so he can get back to his ship and his position and his life, as she will. Let him go, not turn into his touch. Not hold herself still when he moves in close, kisses her cheek, waits.

Maybe that's the last of his madness, then, there in the soft touch of his lips on her mouth, the last time he's throwing caution to the wind for her, with her, and she flushes all over with how long it's been that anyone touched her in passion, with Lee's honesty, his _closeness_ , and she opens her mouth, lets him in, the crowd and the clapping blurring away in a rush of desire. She knows better; she'll send him away, but there's nothing here that's distant, no pedestal. Equal height, and want.

He's slow to undress her, taking his time; it fits him, the pauses before he slips off her blouse, unhooks her skirt, giving her a moment, and she fails him every time because she's weak and trembling and she wants, wants his hands on her, wants the way he kisses her, slow and sweet, all the way to her makeshift bed. Wants him warm and unafraid, over her, wants him moving between her legs, wants his sigh when she draw him close, draws him in, the ache inside her and then the easy rhythm, moving together, naked, nothing between them but heat and pull and yearning.

Wants him to see her come apart, and catch her.

~~~

It's early; she can't tell the time, but she knows it's almost up. A few minutes more, his sleep-heavy arm over her stomach, the warm strength where she's entangled her legs with his.

One more breath, and another; her limbs are distracted with the memory of pleasure. Coming up from drunkenness, aching, her bones bruising the skin from the inside, her own body turning on her; that hasn't changed. But he won't be there to see it. He won't see her waste away.

She's clear-headed; she's good at that. Good at sobriety. A few minutes more. Then she'll send him away. Put her clothes back on, her control, the distance that is hers now.

She let him down. There'll be splinters of this all over them, all through them.

Adama's son, and she has a divided fleet, and cancer, and a purpose, still a purpose. They have her back, and she needs other allies now.

He'll understand. It's for him, too.

Her fingertips trail over his skin, down to the easy bend of his fingers. They curl in a little, around her touch, without holding on. She closes her eyes, even though there is no light. Weak in the dark, a few minutes more.


End file.
